


Noli Me Tangere

by imaginary_golux



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 22:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15672930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: Written for the AU Yeah AUgust prompt "royalty".Princess Rey has a week to choose a husband from a truly ridiculous number of suitors. She knows who her Regent wants her to choose. She knows who the bestpoliticalchoice is. And she knows who she really wants.It's going to be a long week.Beta by my marvelous Best Beloved, Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw.





	Noli Me Tangere

Rey leans back against the pillar, and looks down at the crowd of princes and nobles and well-connected merchants’ sons thronging in the great hall. There are easily two hundred men gathered below, and Rey suddenly knows exactly how a deer feels when it hears the hounds belling on the scent. Every one of those men wants nothing more than to marry the princess and become her consort - or, if they’re truly lucky, her king - and Rey…

Well, Rey is the deer in this little metaphor, isn’t she.

If her parents were still alive, this would _not_ be the way she chose her husband, but Duke Snoke has firm ideas about how a princess’s courting should go, and Rey, alas, is still one month shy of the birthday which will let her take the throne in her own name and send Duke Snoke back to his own lands, far away from her.

She knows which eligible young man Duke Snoke wants her to choose, of course, the one this whole farce has been set up to present. Duke Snoke can’t just marry her off to his son - that would set every other noble of the kingdom against him, resenting his clear attempt at seizing power. But if Rey chooses Kylo during the upcoming week of balls and parties and riding excursions, clearly of her own free will, then no one will be able to protest.

And if Kylo manages to catch her alone and create some sort of scene that looks like he’s dishonored her, she’ll _have_ to marry him, or deal somehow with the resulting scandal. Which is why Rey isn’t going to be going anywhere alone for the next week, not even to the privies.

Pava and Wexley are three paces away even now, grim-faced and formal in their deep blue uniforms with the sand-colored trim, and there will be two guards within three paces of Rey _no matter what_ until this whole damned farce is done. She made her orders very clear. Even if she’s bewitched into ordering them to leave her, they won’t go - and there are more guards, far more than normal, scattered around the palace and grounds, enough that if she is in trouble, there can be two squads there to defend her within seconds. Not that Rey can’t defend _herself_ , but...better safe than sorry. And being married to Kylo would make Rey very sorry indeed.

But if she’s not going to choose Kylo...and she’s _definitely_ not going to choose Kylo...Rey is going to have to choose someone else, one of this throng of eligible males, all vying hopefully for the hand of the princess and none of them giving a good godsdamn about the actual woman wearing the crown and the title. Ugh.

Depending on how unbearable they turn out to be, she’s either going to marry the most _politically_ appropriate - which is probably Marquess Poe Dameron of Yavin, son of Duke Kes Dameron, who is known to be the right hand of Queen Leia Organa, since a closer alliance with Yavin would benefit Jakku a great deal - or the most amiable and good-tempered.

“Highness,” Rose says quietly, and Rey turns to her Chamberlain. “It’s time.”

Rey nods. “Anything I need to know before I go down there?”

Rose glances down at the sheaf of parchment in her hands - the names and ranks of every man down there - and shakes her head. “No, my lady, I think we covered everything last night. No one unexpected has arrived, and we’ve managed to keep Lord Hux and Lord Ren as far from each other as possible.”

Rey snorts a completely undignified laugh. Baron Armitage Hux, son of Earl _Brendol_ Hux, who is the Lord Martial (at least until Rey has the throne and can do something about that), and Viscount Kylo Ren, son of Duke Snoke, who is the Regent (at least until Rey has the throne, see above), hate each other so virulently that Rey has sometimes been tempted to lock them in a room and see which one kills the other first. She really wouldn’t mind either way - they’re both thorns in her side, and each one clearly expects that she’ll choose _him_. Rey would frankly rather marry her best mastiff than either of them, but apparently the fact that she avoids them whenever possible hasn’t quite managed to dim their ardor. For her throne, not for her, she’s quite sure, but it’s still godsdamned annoying.

“Very well,” she says. “Let us go and meet my...suitors.”

Rose grins. “I must confess I have never been gladder not to be noble-born, my lady,” she says. “This is...ridiculous.”

“I feel like a hunted deer,” Rey admits. “Or possibly a prize mare. If any of them check my teeth, I shall bite them.”

“I don’t think anyone will blame you, my lady,” Rose says, clearly trying hard not to laugh.

“Shush, you,” Rey says, grinning despite herself. “You and Kaydel didn’t have to deal with anything like this.”

“For which I am devoutly grateful, my lady,” Rose says cheerfully. “Not that I think the princess is allowed to marry a woman.”

“No,” Rey says grimly. “The bloodline must continue. It’s a man or nothing, I’m afraid.”

“You could just have a harem, like one of those eastern kings,” Rose suggests. Rey covers her mouth to muffle the giggles.

“How would having _dozens_ of men be better than having one?” she demands.

“...They’d at least be decorative?” Rose says, shrugging.

Rey shakes her head and goes down to meet her suitors with a smile she cannot quite suppress.

*

It turns out greeting nearly two hundred royals and nobles and wealthy merchants’ sons of various ranks - and Rey thanks her lucky stars again for Rose, who was in charge of the order of greetings and appears to have managed to not offend _anyone_ , which is honestly a near-miraculous work of diplomacy - takes a long, long time, and Rey is starting to flag more than a little by the time she gets to the very minor merchants’ sons at the end of the line. Also her hand is feeling very uncomfortably over-kissed, which, ew. _Three more to go_ , she tells herself, smiling fixedly at a man whose name she has frankly already forgotten. _Two more to go. One more to go_.

And the very last man in line meets her eyes and gives her a smile that ought by rights to replace the sunrise, so bright and beautiful that Rey literally _staggers_ where she stands. Rose braces her with a hand under her elbow, giving her a worried look, and says, “Master Finn Trooper, of Haruun Kal.”

“Welcome to Jakku,” Rey says, a little breathlessly, and Master Finn Trooper bends over her hand in a graceful bow, lips barely brushing her skin, and straightens with another of those devastating grins.

“It is an honor, Highness,” he says. Gods, his voice is as lovely as the rest of him.

“It is our honor to welcome you,” Rey replies, the same meaningless formality she’s been reciting all godsdamned afternoon, but the words are sweet in her mouth for the first time. Master Finn Trooper bows again and steps gracefully off the dais, and Rey looks down at the sea of suitors, feeling dazed.

“You have journeyed far,” she says, thankful that she’s practiced this little speech a dozen times. “Tonight, rest well within these halls; tomorrow night, you are each and all invited to a ball, in honor of this glorious occasion.”

The suitors bow, like a wave going through the crowd, and Rey curtsies just a little, just enough for courtesy, and retreats - hoping it doesn’t look too much like she’s fleeing - through the door behind the throne. As soon as it’s closed behind her, she sags against the wall. “Ye _gods_ ,” she says faintly. “ _Ugh_.”

“You alright, my lady?” Rose asks worriedly. “Right at the end there -”

Rey pushes herself off the wall and heads towards her rooms, Rose at her side. “I’m just tired,” she says. For some reason, she doesn’t want to say aloud - not even to Rose and Pava and Wexley, who she _knows_ she can trust utterly - how much Master Finn Trooper’s smile affected her.

He might not be anything more than a very pretty smile, after all.

*

Choosing among nearly two hundred suitors is not _completely_ impossible, but it’s certainly not going to be _easy_ , which is why Rey and Rose between them have come up with a system. Rey is going to get at least five minutes of conversation with each of them over the next three days - which is going to be exhausting, but hopefully doable - and they’ve worked out a system of signals, so Rey can subtly indicate to Rose if she liked or disliked the fellow, and how strongly. Rose will mark the decisions down on her parchment in the shorthand only she can read - Rey tried once, and it’s _incomprehensible_ , it really is - and then in the days to come, the men Rey has indicated she wants nothing to do with will be carefully steered away from her by Kaydel’s corps of clever young diplomats.

There are several hundred eligible young _women_ in the palace, after all, gathered here in the hopes that some of the princess’s suitors will be willing to settle for a less exalted bride, and with any luck the ones Rey doesn’t like will be distracted by other ladies. Or other gentlemen. Or horses, Rey frankly doesn’t care as long as they leave her alone.

...Okay, she’ll care if they’re bothering the ladies or gentlemen or horses of her court, and if they do anything _too_ obnoxious she’ll have them sent away in disgrace, but the point stands.

In service of this plan, she makes herself available the next morning after breakfast in the gardens, and within a very little time, the word has clearly spread; there are suitors dotted every few yards, trying to look idle and distracted by the flowers, and failing miserably at it. Rey wanders seemingly aimlessly - she’s reasonably sure none of them are taken in by her act, but it’s the thought that counts, surely - and stops at each suitor to chat about...whatever comes up.

Some of them are better at pretending they’re not here just to try and claim a crown than others.

Rey tries to keep her expression perfectly neutral even when the suitors are eying her speculatively while talking about assuring the line of succession, or asking probing questions about whether her husband is going to be a _king_ or just a _consort_ , or posing like they think their pretty faces are sufficient to earn them a throne, and flicks her fingers at Rose in subtle signals that turn into Rose’s shorthand on the parchment list. Tonight after the ball - well, alright, probably tomorrow morning over breakfast - they’ll go over it together. Kaydel’s clever young diplomats will _also_ be collecting any information they can find to add to Rey’s own first impressions, and Rose will have _that_ , too.

“Remind me to give you a raise,” Rey murmurs to her Chamberlain between suitors. Rose chuckles.

“You already pay me very well, my lady,” she points out.

“Yes, but I should _definitely_ be paying you better,” Rey says grimly. “If nothing else, helping me cope with this bullshit is worth your weight in gold. Yours _and_ Kaydel’s.”

Rose smothers a louder laugh. “It’s not that bad,” she says mildly. “ _I’m_ not the one on the auction block, after all, my lady mare.”

Rey snorts a laugh and has to pretend a coughing fit to cover it. “You’re dreadful,” she says.

“And you don’t look like a thundercloud anymore,” Rose replies cheerfully. “Heads up, here comes another one.”

Rey plasters on a placid expression and turns to greet the next suitor, who has apparently gotten weary of waiting for her to come to _him_ and decided to take the initiative. Which could be a point in his favor, or it could be a very bad sign, she’s reserving judgment.

...Alright, no, she decides, as he slobbers over her hand and, metaphorically, also over her bosom, _bad_ sign. Not this one. _Ugh_.

*

Marquess Poe Dameron is not one of the suitors she meets in the gardens, rather to Rey’s surprise. Nor, to her well-hidden dismay, is Master Finn Trooper.

Marquess Dameron _is_ in the stables, though, when Rey escapes for her afternoon ride. He’s clearly not looking for her: he’s wearing battered old clothing, much as Rey herself is, and is grooming an enormous black stallion, crooning nonsense words to it, as it lips at his hair in clear affection.

Rey’s own mare, a tall sand-colored beauty named Storm, has clearly been given a carrot recently, and is making no trouble about a stranger in the stables, which suggests that Marquess Dameron is very good with horses indeed. That’s a point in his favor, actually. Even if they have nothing else in common, they could talk about horses. And he’s handsome, which is nice, if not necessary, in someone Rey might be spending the rest of her life with.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” she says, and Marquess Dameron jumps and whirls, blushing to the tips of his ears.

“Good afternoon, Highness,” he says, bowing elegantly despite his battered clothing and the horse-slobber on his shirt. “My apologies for not seeing you come in.”

“You were a bit busy, it’s fine,” Rey says, and leans on the stall gate, looking the black stallion over appreciatively. “What’s your horse’s name?”

“Sable,” Marquess Dameron says, and the horse bends his head at the sound of his name and nudges Marquess Dameron hopefully. Marquess Dameron tousles the horse’s ears and mane. “And he’s a very good horse, yes he is,” he adds in the crooning sing-song which Rey herself often uses to horses and hounds. “I saw him foaled, and had the training of him myself; I oversee my father’s herds, and chose his sire and dam myself. He is the finest stallion in our herd just now, and I have high hopes of his foals.”

Rey is impressed, actually. If he’s not just bragging...well, overseeing a stud farm isn’t the same thing as running a country, but it _does_ require organization and a certain level of ruthless practicality.

And then a dog almost large enough to be a pony itself rises out of the hay at the back of the stall, and Rey startles back, Pava and Wexley both putting hands to their weapons. Marquess Dameron clicks his fingers at the dog - it is _enormous_ , orange and white and shaggy - and it obediently settles at his feet, tongue lolling, looking fairly friendly for all its size. “Sorry about that,” Marquess Dameron says sheepishly. “This is Baby, she’s very friendly.”

“Baby?” Rey asks incredulously.

“Baby Eight, actually. She was the runt of the litter.” Marquess Dameron shrugs helplessly. “She...ah...grew a bit.”

“I certainly hope she’s not _still_ the runt, or I expect her siblings are large enough to ride,” Rey says, still boggled.

“No, she’s not the runt anymore,” Marquess Dameron says, grinning. “Would you like to meet her?”

“Certainly,” Rey says, and Marquess Dameron clicks his fingers again. The dog looks up to meet his eyes. Marquess Dameron points at Rey.

“Princess Rey,” he says firmly. “ _Friend_.”

The dog whuffs, a deep noise that echoes in the stall, and bounds over to Rey, licking her outstretched hand eagerly and then standing up on its hind legs to lick her face. Rey finds herself laughing helplessly as she fends the friendly creature off. “ _Down_ , girl,” she says, and to her surprise the dog actually sits down, panting happily.

Marquess Dameron is rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly when Rey looks at him, and holding out a handkerchief. “Sorry about that,” he says as Rey takes the handkerchief and wipes her face. “Baby’s a little...exuberant sometimes.”

“She’s a very good girl,” Rey says, and the dog wags her absurdly fluffy tail. “Pleasure to meet you, Baby.”

Baby whuffs again, almost like she’s replying, and Rey grins. “I’m afraid if I leave Storm alone any longer she’ll be dreadfully offended, my lord, so I must take my leave.”

“By all means, Highness,” Marquess Dameron replies, grinning. “My regards to your Storm, who is the finest mare I have seen outside my father’s stables.”

Rey nods in gracious acknowledgement of the compliment and moves to tack Storm up. She spends the whole first half of the ride pondering Marquess Dameron and his charming dog and handsome horse, until she firmly puts the whole matter out of her mind and concentrates determinedly on the glory of just _riding_ , alone but for her guards and the wind.

When she gets back to the stables, Marquess Dameron is gone - which is good; if he was still there, she’d have to revise her assessment of their meeting as having been pure chance - and she can untack Storm and rub her down in blissful near-privacy.

Which is, of course, ruined the moment she steps out of the stables and nearly runs into godsdamned Viscount Kylo Ren.

He looks like he would _like_ to sneer at her windblown appearance, her battered old clothing and scuffed, broken-in riding boots, but he’s supposed to be charming her, so he doesn’t. He does say, “Princess Rey. What a...surprise.”

_Ugh_.

Rey can’t just brush him off, not yet. She’s supposed to be giving everyone a fair shake, and if she gives Kylo any excuse at all, he’ll go whining to his father, who will definitely not keep his word about staying out of this decision if Rey looks like she’s being anything less than utterly fair and impartial. “Lord Ren,” she says evenly. “How does the day find you?”

“All the better for your being in it,” he says. _Ugh_ twice. Duke Snoke must have gotten a conversation master in after the last time Kylo insulted her in public.

“My apologies, but I cannot stay to talk,” Rey says, her disheveled appearance giving her a perfect excuse. “I must go and prepare for the ball tonight.”

“You cannot possibly be lovelier then than you are now,” Kylo says, with the twist to his smile that makes the words an insult rather than a compliment. Rey stifles a sigh.

“Until then,” she says instead of any of the sharp words eager on her tongue, and leaves him smirking after her. She’s not _quite_ stomping in fury, but she’s certainly out of temper, and when she comes around a corner a little too fast and runs smack into someone, she’s about ready to tear strips off them -

And whoever it is catches her, quick reflexes and gentle hands, and sets her down on her feet again. Rey looks up to find Master Finn Trooper looking very sheepish.

“My apologies, Highness, I was not looking where I was going,” he says, with a shy little smile that makes Rey swallow hard.

“My fault entirely, Master Trooper,” she says. “I was out of temper, and not paying attention as I ought.”

“It _is_ your palace,” he points out, shy smile widening. “I should think you’d be allowed to stomp around it in a fury as you pleased.”

“Not when it inconveniences others,” Rey says, shrugging. Master Trooper looks thoughtful for a moment, then offers what Rey can only think of as an entirely charming grin.

“You could have a designated stomping-about-in-a-fury course,” he suggests. “With - ah - punching bags, or archery targets, or particularly ugly vases suitable for smashing.”

Rey finds herself giggling. “And a lot of doors to slam,” she adds, delighted when he grins even more widely. “And some good echo-y corridors for stomping properly.”

“Sounds dead useful, really,” Master Trooper says. “You could loan it out to your court when you weren’t using it. Let everyone get their mad out somewhere safe.”

“I rather like it,” Rey says. “Hm. And I _do_ have a lot of really _astonishingly_ ugly vases. My great-grandfather fancied himself a potter, you see, as a hobby, and though it isn’t done to speak ill of one’s ancestors, I must admit his taste in decoration was...not the finest.”

Master Trooper chuckles. Rey grins.

“I shall see you at the ball tonight, then, Master Trooper; I must go and let my poor maids try to remove some of the horsehair ere I don my gown,” she says, and Master Trooper bows deeply.

“Until tonight, Highness, I take my leave,” he says and heads off. Rey watches him go thoughtfully. She wouldn’t have thought _anything_ could get her out of her Kylo-induced snit that fast, but...she’s not angry anymore. In fact…

Well. She’s rather happy, tell the truth. Now _there’s_ something for Rose to write down on her parchment lists.

*

It’s not actually physically possible to dance with almost two hundred suitors over the course of a four-hour ball - well, alright, if Rey spent just over a minute with each of them and didn’t take any breaks, she _could_ do it, but _ugh_ \- so Rey concentrates on those suitors she has not yet encountered today. Unfortunately, that means she doesn’t get to dance with _either_ Marquess Dameron _or_ Master Trooper, but thankfully it _does_ mean she doesn’t have to dance with Viscount Kylo Ren.

Thank the _gods_.

Regrettably, she _does_ have to dance with Baron Hux. He does her a favor, though, and spends the whole of their dance gloating about how he’ll be able to become Lord Martial himself after they are married, and lead their armies to glorious victory, which means Rey can cross him off the list of potential suitors without _anyone_ batting an eye at it. Going to war - when Jakku has been at peace for nearly three decades, and bids fair to _stay_ at peace for as long again if she doesn’t do anything stupid and none of the other monarchs nearby start rattling their sabers - is a damned stupid idea, and a consort who wants a war is one Rey can turn down with _delightful_ ease.

Nobody else makes nearly as strong an impression, either good _or_ bad, but by the time Rey finally declares the ball over and thanks her guests for their attendance, it’s past midnight. She falls into bed with her hair still wrapped in a towel, too tired even to let her handmaids finish tending to her, and wakes blearily well after dawn the next morning.

Rose and Kaydel are waiting along with breakfast, both looking _far_ more awake than Rey feels. “So, my lady,” Rose says cheerfully as Rey piles her plate with bacon and toasted bread rolls and slices of pear and apple, “any more decisions from last night?”

“Not Hux, thank the _gods_ ,” Rey says immediately. “Warmongering’s enough for even the most conservative nobles to admit he’s a bad match.”

Rose nods, marking her parchment carefully. “Lord Ren still technically in the running?” she checks.

“Ugh,” Rey says, rubbing her forehead. “Yes. I - godsdamn it, I can’t turn him down until the very last day, or he’ll go running to Duke Snoke, and I don’t want to think about what _he_ might do.”

Rose nods understandingly. Kaydel wrinkles her nose. “Highness,” she says slowly, “I know it’s only a month until your birthday, but - when you choose someone who _isn’t_ Lord Ren - what is Duke Snoke going to do?”

“Depends on who I choose,” Rey says grimly. “If I do end up choosing Marquess Dameron - which is looking more likely, honestly, he’s amiable and likes dogs and horses and is pretty easy on the eyes - Duke Snoke won’t be able to do a damn thing about it, because that’s a _good_ match, one every other noble will approve of. But if I choose...oh...Master Trooper, say…” she trails off and sighs.

“He might be able to convince the other nobles you’re unfit for the throne,” Rose says flatly.

“Yes,” Rey says. “That.”

Kaydel winces. “I am so, so glad that neither of us is noble,” she tells Rose faintly.

“It doesn’t seem worth the hassle, no,” Rose agrees. “But Master Trooper _is_ still in the running, I see,” she adds, shuffling through her stack of parchment.

“I like him,” Rey says softly. “I know it’s probably a terrible idea, and frankly at this point it looks probable I’m going to end up with Marquess Dameron, but...I like Master Trooper a _lot_. He’s...sweet.”

“Very polite to the servants, too,” Kaydel adds thoughtfully. “So’s Marquess Dameron, for that matter. And my spies haven’t found _anything_ to either of their detriments, which means either there isn’t anything or it’s _really_ well buried. Not that there’s much to find about Master Trooper. He’s his father’s younger son, they’re wool merchants, he spent five years in the army and rose to the rank of sergeant, left when his elder brother died of a fever, has commendations from most of his commanding officers. That’s about all I’ve got.”

“Huh,” Rey says. “Wool merchants, and with a military ancestor from the name. Well, nothing wrong with that; it’s a good steady market, and presumably that means Master Trooper knows the value of a gold-bit, which some of those empty-headed princelings _don’t_. And if he’s been military himself, he can give orders, which is useful.”

“He’s still not even a little bit noble,” Kaydel reminds her, and Rey sighs.

“True,” she says glumly.

“I still say it’s a pity you can’t have a harem,” Rose mock-grumbles, and Rey’s bad mood dissolves into giggles.

“I really don’t know what I’d do without you,” she tells her friends - her Chamberlain and her Spymaster, yes, but more importantly her _friends_ , which are priceless treasures to a princess or a queen.

“You’d have to learn shorthand,” Rose says promptly, and Rey shakes her head, giggling harder.

“Gods save me from such a fate,” she says, and rises to let her handmaidens drape her in expensive fabric so she can go out and learn which suitors she definitely doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life with.

*

By midafternoon, Rey has spent far too much time wandering through the gardens - they’re lovely gardens and she’s fond of them, but she’s _fonder_ when they’re not full of hopeful suitors - and her hand is feeling distinctly overkissed again. Why so many of her suitors feel the need to outright _slobber_ on her fingers is a question Rey would really like an answer to. It’s not quite enough to get a suitor _disqualified_ \- she doesn’t dare use something so petty - but it’s definitely enough to get each slobberer a little mark in Rose’s neat shorthand that reads ‘ick.’ If one of them turns out to be a good choice _otherwise_ , well, they’re not out of the running, but Rey’s going to have to have some pointed words with them before anything more enthusiastic than hand-kissing occurs.

She’s also _more_ than ready for her afternoon ride, because spending an hour or so on Storm without having to think about suitors sounds an awful lot like paradise right now.

Marquess Dameron is not in the stables, and Rey can’t decide if she’s grateful or not. She wouldn’t mind talking to him again, but on the other hand, he _is_ a suitor, and she doesn’t want to deal with that right now.

Three of her other suitors, however, _are_ in the stables - “tending their horses,” or at least pretending to, which involves a lot of clumsily running currycombs over horses that clearly don’t need the attention - and Rey sighs as she realizes that word has gotten out about her regular afternoon rides. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she says, and heads straight for Storm. This is _not_ suitor time, and she’s not going to use up her entire hour in talking to each of them when she could be _riding_.

Which of course means that they all cluster in front of Storm’s stall to stop her from getting out. Rey considers, briefly, having Pava and Wexley move them, but that would be...extremely undiplomatic. “Gentlemen,” she says instead, “my horse does not appreciate being crowded; be so kind as to step back.”

“But what can a horse offer that we cannot?” asks the highest-ranking and most obnoxious of the three, with an expression Rey can only categorize - and rather tentatively, since such expressions are not usually directed at _her_ \- as a leer. One of the others very sensibly steps back and away, giving his companion a look of incredulous dismay, and Rey marks _him_ down mentally as clever enough to give another chance, but _this_ gentleman…

“Lord Thanisson,” she says coldly, “evidently my horse can offer a far better understanding of my desires than _you_ can, for when I bid her move, she does so.”

Lord Thanisson goes quite red. His remaining companion steps back as though he has been shoved, getting as far as possible from the angry princess. And really, Rey’s temper has never been as tame as it ought to be, and this whole farce of a courting has her frustrated and on edge, and Lord Thanisson is acting like he has some sort of _right_ to her time, her hand, her _throne_ -

“You are no longer welcome in my court, Lord Thanisson,” Rey says coldly. “I do not like of you.”

Lord Thanisson actually puffs up, like he’s about to protest, and Wexley - gods bless him - puts a heavy, gauntleted hand on the nobleman’s shoulder.

“Her Highness has spoken,” Wexley says firmly, and steers Lord Thanisson out of the stables with an iron grip.

The other two suitors have also fled. Rey takes a deep breath and stuffs her temper down again before Storm can start getting antsy. The mare is battle-trained, and Rey doesn’t want her to take a chunk out of some unsuspecting passer-by. Or even a suitor, unless it’s _really_ necessary.

Aran comes jogging in, sketching a bow as he takes his place beside Pava. “Snap said he’d be a few minutes and I should be on riding duty so you don’t have to wait any longer, Highness,” he says briskly, and Rey grins her thanks and swings up onto Storm’s back gratefully.

“Then mount up and let us be gone,” she says, and they are off.

*

She’s in a much better mood when they get back - riding will do that, thank the gods, and she learned fairly young to go for a ride before making any major decisions, just to make sure her head is clear and her temper is as even as it ever gets - and to her great relief, there are no suitors in the stables, not even amiable Marquess Dameron or lovely Master Trooper.

She even makes it all the way back to her rooms without running into anyone, which is either a miracle or a sign that Wexley passed the word around her guards that she probably wouldn’t react well to being disturbed, and they’ve cleared her path. All gods bless Wexley and his finely-honed sense of when it is best to not let idiots anywhere near the princess.

Which times _definitely_ include the hours before a Full Court Banquet featuring every suitor except the dismissed Lord Thanisson, and as many eligible young women as Kaydel could beg, bribe, or order to attend.

Rey gets to sit at the head table, of course, and Kaydel and Rose between them have managed to work out an entire new seating arrangement for _each course_ of the banquet - Rey frankly doesn’t want to think about how much work that took - so that every suitor will get to be at the head table with Rey for at least a little while. It would have been technically _easier_ to just move _Rey_ around, but when she suggested that, Rose sniffed derisively and said, “They’re here to court _you_ , my lady, not you to court them. They can damn well move themselves if they want to sit with you!”

Rey _adores_ her Chamberlain, she really does. If she was interested in women at _all_ \- and if Rose and Kaydel weren’t so clearly joyful together - she might have been willing to deal with all the political fallout and just marry _Rose_. But, alas, it was not to be, and in any case Rose and Kaydel _are_ so happy together that Rey couldn’t bear to separate them even if she _did_ prefer women.

So Rey gets to sit in ridiculous splendor at the high table and attempt to make small talk with a seemingly endless succession of gentlemen, while her food gets cold and her drink gets warm and she doesn’t taste more than a bite or two of anything. She anticipated this, actually, and has left orders for a bowl of soup and some good bread to be waiting in her rooms when this interminable banquet is over, but it’s still frustrating.

Even more frustrating is the fact that she really _does_ have to let every single suitor, save the dismissed Lord Thanisson, join her for at least a little while, which means even the odious Baron Hux gets a chance to smirk at her over a plate of what Rey suspects is very good venison - not that she gets to eat much of it -

And then, to Rey’s blank surprise, the dessert course comes around, and the shuffling of chairs dies away again, and she is flanked, right and left, by Marquess Dameron and Master Trooper.

_Every_ god bless Rose and Kaydel.

“Gentlemen,” she says warmly.

“Highness,” Marquess Dameron and Master Trooper chorus, and then shoot each other a grin. “How does your fine mare?” Marquess Dameron adds cheerfully.

“Very well, thank you,” Rey says, and then, because it’s polite as well as because she’s curious, asks Master Trooper, “Have you your own horse, sir?”

Master Trooper ducks his head. “Actually,” he says, rather sheepishly, “I have a mule.”

Rey’s eyebrows go up. So, she sees when she glances over, have Marquess Dameron’s. “A mule?” she asks.

“She was with me in the army,” Master Trooper explains, “and once when I was injured, she would not leave my side, but defended me from all comers, and earned herself a scar to match my own. I bought her as soon as I woke from my sickbed, and she has been my constant companion since that day. She is sweet of temper - for a mule - and tall enough to bear me, and…” he trails off, shrugging helplessly. “I like her.”

“She sounds a very paragon of mules,” Rey says, finding that she is smiling so broadly her cheeks hurt. “Has she been well-treated in my stables?”

“She has,” Master Trooper says. “They have been very good to her, and I think she will be quite spoiled, when I return home and she must be groomed and fed only by my hands.”

“I think,” Marquess Dameron says, “that she will be pleased enough by your care; anyone would, to be cared for by one who so adored them.”

Rey suspects Master Trooper is blushing behind his dark skin. Gods damn, but he’s _adorable_. “And your Sable, my lord?” she asks Marquess Dameron. “He has been treated well, too, I hope?”

“As well as he would be in my father’s stables,” Marquess Dameron says warmly. “And I rather think one of your servants has a fondness for my darling Baby, too, for I left her with a bone near as long as her torso when I came away to this banquet.”

“Er,” Master Trooper says awkwardly. “That was me, I’m afraid.” Marquess Dameron’s eyebrows go up. “I met...Baby, did you say her name was? I met her yesterday in the gardens, and she was a very amiable companion.”

“She makes friends wherever she goes,” Marquess Dameron says, clearly amused.

“Admittedly at first I thought she was a bear,” Master Trooper says. Rey giggles.

“So too did I,” she tells him conspiratorily, and Master Trooper grins at her. “I am informed she was the runt of her litter.”

Master Trooper’s eyes go wide. “Are her siblings large enough to _ride_?” he asks incredulously.

Marquess Dameron breaks into delighted laughter. “Why is that everyone’s first question?” he says merrily.

“Because Baby is large enough for other dogs to hide under,” Rey observes dryly, and _both_ men laugh.

“Baby is near as large as my _mule_ ,” Master Trooper adds, and Marquess Dameron laughs so hard his ears go red, and Rey -

Rey is going to have a damned hard time choosing between these two men, and yes, this banquet has narrowed it that far. She hasn’t had as much enjoyment out of an entire _course’s_ conversation with any of her other suitors as she has had in five _minutes_ with Marquess Dameron and Master Trooper, and they’re both damn easy on the eyes, and she _likes_ them.

*

“So,” Rose says cheerfully as Rey attacks her soup and toasted bread with nearly ravenous hunger, “what’s the verdict, my lady?”

“If I’m sensible,” Rey mumbles around a mouthful of very good bread, “Marquess Dameron.”

“And if you’re not sensible?” Kaydel asks, sounding as though she already knows the answer.

“Master Trooper,” Rey admits.

Kaydel nods soberly. “And everyone else is out of the running, then?” she checks.

“Yes,” Rey says firmly. “If you can do it discreetly, let the young women of my court know it’s open season on the rest of my suitors.”

Rose giggles. Kaydel shakes her head. “You’ve got the right metaphor, my lady; if you felt like a hunted doe, they will all feel like ten-point stags when the hounds have gotten a scent. I’ve _seen_ the ladies of your court at husband-hunting.”

“So have I,” Rey agrees. “It’s quite a remarkable sight, so long as you’re not involved.” She grins. “Better them than me.”

Rose and Kaydel nod enthusiastically.

*

Rey endures the next three days of being amiable to every single suitor by cherishing the scant minutes she manages to find with Marquess Dameron - who is in the stables often, always crooning to his tall stallion and his enormous dog - and with Master Trooper, who has a positive gift for showing up whenever Rey most desperately needs to see a friendly face and, in five minutes of cheerful conversation, cheering her up as much as a three-hour ride usually does. Rey is reasonably certain Master Trooper doesn’t actually expect to win her hand - he knows as well as she does that he’s the lowest-ranked and least likely suitor here - but that only speaks better of him, that he is kind even in what he thinks is defeat. Conversely, Marquess Dameron must know he is the most likely winner of this damned contest, and yet he is still charming and cheerful and engaging, never taking his victory for granted or treating Rey as a prize already won.

Unlike Viscount Kylo Ren.

He _lurks_ in Rey’s vicinity, just out of sight, until she’s alone but for her guards, and then appears as though from thin air to loom over her and leer down at her, far too close for propriety, far too _proprietary_ for Rey’s temper. He calls her by her bare name as though he has already won her, and smiles at her rising anger as though it is the growling of a harmless lapdog.

“If he dares lay a hand on me,” Rey says to Rose after the third such encounter, “son of Duke Snoke or not, I shall have that hand _cut off_.”

Rose winces. “Two more days, my lady,” she says. “Two more days, and you can banish him from court and never see him again.”

Rey snarls a little to herself, but she nods. “I can last two more days without doing anything...undiplomatic,” she says grimly. “I hope.”

And then, the day before Rey is to announce her choices at yet another grand ball, Rose vanishes.

Rey ignores her suitors, forgets her duties, and scours the castle for her Chamberlain. Kaydel is interrogating anyone and everyone who might have seen Rose leave the palace - willingly or no. There is no way in _hell_ Rose would voluntarily leave at such a vital moment, and Rey - Rey cannot bear to think that her dearest friend is in danger because of _her_. Chamberlains are supposed to be _safe_! It’s not like they go to war, or send out spies, or act as bodyguards!

It’s getting on towards evening, and Rey is getting very close to tears of rage and frustration and fear, when Viscount Kylo Ren appears, smirking, beside her. “My _dear_ Princess Rey, are you missing something?” he purrs.

Rey glares up at him. “Some _one_ ,” she snaps. “My Chamberlain, Rose Tico. Have you seen her?”

Kylo Ren affects a thoughtful expression. “Your Chamberlain...hm. Ah yes! Come to think of it, I _have_ seen her.” His smile grows wider. Rey wants to slap it from his face. “She is enjoying my father’s hospitality. I am sure she will return to you soon...after your consort is announced, perhaps.” He chuckles. “Provided, of course, that your consort is...appropriately chosen.”

Rey sees red, and only Wexley’s hand on her shoulder keeps her from leaping at Kylo Ren and doing her damnedest to rip his throat out with her bare hands. How dare he? How _dare_ he?

And she can’t do a damn thing about it, either, because raiding Duke Snoke’s townhouse - much less any of his _other_ properties - for the sake of a common-born woman who might not even be _held_ there - gods, she could be anywhere in the city, could be _outside_ the city - on no other evidence than a few words from Viscount Kylo Ren spoken where only Rey and two guards can hear -

She can’t do it.

“I see we understand each other,” Kylo Ren says smugly, and sweeps away. Rey watches him go, wanting, in that moment, nothing more than to tear his heart out with her bare hands.

And then she goes to find Kaydel, and tell her spymaster what she has learned.

*

Kaydel listens to Rey’s tale without any expression on her face, and then gets up and pours them each a glass of very good brandy, and settles into her seat again stiffly, as though it hurts to move. “What are you going to do?” she asks quietly.

“Gods,” Rey says, feeling sick. “I - I can’t let Snoke and Kylo Ren kill her. I _can’t_. Which means I have to name Kylo Ren as my consort tomorrow night.”

Kaydel takes a deep breath. “My princess,” she says, “I would to gods I did not have to say this, but is the life of one woman - even my own beloved, even your own dearest friend - worth letting Kylo Ren have the power he so desires? You know he will not be satisfied to be your consort. He will demand to become king beside you, and once he is king and you have borne an heir…” she pauses, takes a sip of brandy, and finishes, “you will become expendable, Highness. And I do not think our country can afford to lose _you_.”

“Gods,” Rey says faintly. It’s entirely too plausible a setup, and one that has Snoke’s slimy fingerprints all over it. It’s exactly the sort of thing he _would_ do. And if Rey marries Kylo Ren - apparently of her own free will - she’s going to have a lot less leverage against Snoke when she speaks to her other nobles.

But to let Rose die to save Rey from a _marriage_ \- Rey can’t bear the thought. And Rose would not die quickly, she knows. Snoke and Kylo Ren will be too vengeful to give Rose even that much mercy, if Rey chooses someone other than Kylo Ren tomorrow night.

Rey buries her face in her hands. “I cannot, and I must,” she says, voice breaking. “Oh _gods_.”

Kaydel drains the rest of her brandy and swallows hard against tears. “I cannot make this choice for you, my princess,” she says softly. “I know you would do anything to get Rose back - but would she thank you for it, if it doomed us all?”

*

Rey steps out onto the dais, ballgown swishing softly around her, and looks out over the sea of suitors and hopeful young noblewomen and elder statesmen, all of them waiting for her words.

She still hasn’t decided what she’s going to do.

There’s Kylo Ren in the first row, looking smug, looking _triumphant_. Gods. Rey scans for Marquess Dameron, for Master Trooper, and can’t find them - realizes suddenly that she hasn’t seen either of _them_ for two days. Gods, _no_. Did Kylo Ren and his never-sufficiently-damned father take them, too? That will be war with Yavin, if they have - did they offer that to the Huxes in order to get the Lord Martial’s backing? Is this _all_ part of their plan?

Is Rey even going to live long enough to be crowned, if such deep-laid plans are arrayed against her?

She takes a deep breath, wondering what she is going to say. “My people, and my guests, honored companions all,” she begins slowly, “today, as you all know, I am to choose the consort who will stand beside me, the father of my heirs and the companion of my years. Many lands have sent the finest flowers of their manhood to sue for my hand, and I thank them all, for they do me great honor.” Can she just keep spouting frilly nonsense until midnight strikes, and then claim she has chosen no one at all? No, that would never do. She would enrage half the countries on the continent, and still lose Rose.

Can she publicly accuse Kylo Ren and his father of treason? For kidnapping the princess’s Chamberlain _is_ treason. But no - without evidence of any sort, she would look to be the sort of monarch who uses false accusation and cruelty to rule, not justice.

And she would still lose Rose.

She opens her mouth - to say what, she honestly doesn’t know - and there is a great commotion at the doors, shouting and a dog’s stentorious barking, a ripple of people being shoved aside. Rey snaps her mouth shut and gestures at her guards, who clear a way for the newcomers as soon as they see who they are.

Marquess Dameron, Master Trooper, and Baby come trotting up to the foot of the dais, with Rose - disheveled, filthy, furious, and _alive_ \- between them.

“Highness!” Rose shouts, falling to her knees on the dais steps. Marquess Dameron and Master Trooper kneel at once beside her. “Highness, I beg you - justice!”

Rey goes to her at once, raises her Chamberlain to her feet and leads her up onto the dais. “My Chamberlain!” she cries, just as loudly. “Where have you been, and how in such a state?”

Rose’s eyes are shining with rage and relief. “Highness, I was most foully kidnapped!” she replies. There is a gasp from the assembled nobles - this is as good as a stage play! “These men, your valiant suitors, saw me taken, and in their courage and compassion followed and have even now freed me, though our pursuers follow fast.”

Rey gestures to the guards, and a good half of them go sprinting out the main doors. “Tell me who took you from my side,” she demands of Rose. “Tell me who has been so _treasonous_ as to take my good right hand from me!”

More gasps. Rey has the crowd on her side, now.

“Highness, I swear to you upon my life, and may the gods strike me down if I lie,” Rose says fiercely. “It was Duke Snoke, and his son Viscount Kylo Ren.”

Kylo Ren howls, “She lies!” -

But Rey’s guards return, dragging between them half a dozen soldiers in the livery of Snoke’s house, and Marquess Dameron rises to cry, “On my life she speaks but truth!” and the commotion is loud enough that Rey frankly cannot hear herself think.

And Kylo Ren, may all the gods bless his hot temper and utter lack of sense, _draws a knife_ and leaps onto the dais.

Rey gets there before the guards, or Marquess Dameron and Master Trooper, can do more than gasp. She has been waiting for this day for _years_ \- and Kylo Ren, gods take him for a fool, has never bothered to notice that her formal dresses have slits in them that allow her to access the paired knives which are her favorite weapons.

She has him down, with her foot on his throat and his knife skittering across the floor, before he can so much as scream.

A hush falls over the crowd - well, attempted regicide will do that. Rey beckons her guards. Wexley and Pava take _great_ pleasure in hauling Kylo Ren to his knees and tying his hands behind his back.

“Take him to the dungeons,” Rey orders. “Find his father, my false Regent, and bring him to join his son. I will deal with them after I am crowned.” A treason trial is not the _best_ way to start her reign, but it’s far, far better than marrying Kylo Ren would be. Her guards haul him away, and Rey turns to face the crowd.

“My people, and my honored guests,” she says. “I apologize for the utter incivility of this interlude.” The tension breaks, replaced by startled laughter. “My so-uncivil suitor desired, by the words of his own mouth, to force me to wed him by threatening the person of my Chamberlain, who is my good right hand.” She takes a deep breath. “Such blackmail cannot be borne; even had my Chamberlain not been rescued, I could never have wed her kidnapper. Yet glad I am to say -” and she shoots a quick, fierce, gleeful grin at Rose, whose eyes suddenly go wide - “that even as I had planned ere this disaster struck and was amended, in the tradition of my ancestors and by my will and word, I claim for my consorts and husbands the valiant men who rescued my Chamberlain and have won my heart and hands: Marquess Poe Dameron of Yavin, and Master Finn Trooper of Haruun Kal!”

Marquess Dameron and Master Trooper’s jaws drop in a very satisfying manner. Rey holds out her hands, and after a moment of stunned silence, they glance at each other and reach up to take them, stepping up onto the dais to flank her.

“My people, honored guests, I present to you my consorts!” Rey cries, and the cheering - startled but delighted, if she is any judge - rings from the high ceiling, echoing and re-echoing from the marble walls.

*

Rose falls into Kaydel’s arms as soon as they’re all safely in the passageway that leads from the Great Hall to the royal wing. Rey manages to herd them both along until they reach her sitting room, and lets them collapse onto a couch together, then turns to look at Marquess Dameron and Master Trooper - and Poe and Finn, she supposes she should get used to calling them - who are both standing just inside the doorway looking awkward. Baby is sitting at Poe’s feet, panting happily.

“Come and sit down,” Rey says, gesturing to the rest of the comfortable, if rather shabby, chairs. This room was her parents’ when they were alive, and Rey keeps it much as it was then out of nostalgic affection. Also she likes having chairs she can properly curl up in when she wants to.

It’s Marquess Dameron - _Poe_ , godsdammit - who says tentatively, “Both of us?”

Rey sits down heavily, the stress of the last two days finally catching up with her. Baby comes over and puts her head in Rey’s lap - well, Rey won’t be getting up for a while yet - and Rey huffs a quiet laugh and strokes the dog’s remarkably soft fur. “You must know you were the most politic choice,” she tells Poe, who nods solemnly. “I was rather startled to discover I that I enjoy your company; I assumed you would be as proud and uncivil as the highest-ranking of my own country’s nobles. Had Master Trooper not attended this gathering, I would have chosen you alone, and done so with a light heart and a great hope for future happiness.”

Poe blushes crimson. Master Trooper - _Finn_ \- looks very surprised. “I cannot imagine what I have to offer to match Marquess Dameron, Highness,” he says.

“Please, both of you, call me Rey,” Rey says. “I mislike being ‘Highnessed’ in private. And - I _like_ you, Master Trooper. I like your company, I like your smile, I like your humor. Were I only Rey alone, and not a princess, I should have gladly been a wool merchant’s wife at your side. As it is,” she shrugs, spreading her hands wide and then going back to petting Baby when the dog whines plaintively. “I could not choose between you.”

“Huh,” Poe says, glancing over at Finn and grinning. “Well, I can certainly see why you’d be pleased to marry Finn. He’s damned good company - and a fine warrior.”

Finn ducks his head. “And I can see why you’d want to marry Poe. He’s charming, and very brave - reckless, but brave.”

Poe wrinkles his nose. “You invade _one_ duke’s townhouse, and people start calling you reckless,” he says lightly. “And to be fair, you were right behind me.”

“Yes, well, they had the princess’s Chamberlain, what was I supposed to do?” Finn mock-grumbles, his grin to wide for his tone to be anything but a joke.

“I’m going to want the full story on that later,” Rey says. “But for now - are you both content to be my co-consorts?” She grins crookedly. “It may be, after all, that after this week you have found you do not like of _me_.”

Finn blurts, “Not _like_ you? Do you think me mad?” and then covers his face with both hands. Poe pats him on the shoulder, chuckling.

“My co-consort speaks truth,” he says warmly. “You are the finest woman I have ever met, and to be your consort is an honor and a privilege I will do my utmost to deserve.”

“Well then,” Rey says, and leans back in her chair, laughing a little when Baby drapes her forepaws over Rey’s lap and leans adoringly against her stomach. “It seems we have a wedding to plan, then. Tomorrow. Or maybe the next day. Tonight - tonight I thank you, again, for rescuing my Rose, without whom I would be bereft, and for accepting my rather unorthodox proposal.”

“You are,” Poe says solemnly, “most welcome.”

“It was our honor to help Rose,” Finn adds, giving Rey a soft, sweet smile that makes her heart beat faster. “And it is our privilege to accept your proposal.”

“Even as my co-consort says,” Poe agrees, nodding firmly, and then surprises all of them - including himself - by yawning. “I think perhaps invading a duke’s stronghold on three hours of sleep has failed to agree with me,” he says sheepishly.

“Then I will bid you both goodnight,” Rey says at once. “Tomorrow is soon enough for wedding plans.”

Poe and Finn bow their way out - Baby grumbles but follows her master - and Rose turns to the couch, where Rose and Kaydel are curled tightly around each other. “Rose,” she says softly, and Rose scrambles off the couch and hugs Rey tightly. Thankfully the chair is big enough for two, if they’re small and friendly.

“I’m so sorry,” Rey says into her best friend’s hair. “I’m so _sorry_ , I couldn’t protect you, I -”

“You were going to reject that bastard anyway, and I’m _glad_ ,” Rose says fiercely. “They were gloating where I could hear, you know - they never planned to give me back, but they were going to kill you as soon as there was an heir, and start a war with Yavin, and - I’ll tell you all of it tomorrow. You did the _right_ thing, my lady, and I’m proud of you.”

Rey is reasonably sure Rose won’t mind a few tears falling into the mess of her hair, especially as Rose is crying on Rey’s gown. Kaydel is trying to look like she wasn’t _also_ crying just a few minutes ago.

“I’m giving you a bodyguard from now on, I hope you realize that,” Rey says, in lieu of anything that wouldn’t be either ridiculously bloodthirsty or far too weepy. “And I’m ennobling you as soon as I’m queen.”

“What?” Rose gasps. Rey grimaces.

“I meant it to be a surprise - I’ve been planning it for _years_ ,” she says. “But yes. You’ll be Countess of Niima as soon as I’m queen.”

Rose squeaks in shock. Kaydel’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. Rey grins: keeping a secret from _both_ of them is a trick she doesn’t manage often.

“You’re _dreadful_ ,” Rose says, sniffling a little.

“You’re _alive_ ,” Rey says, holding her dearest friend a little closer. “I think I’m allowed to shower earned honors on you if I like.”

*

Rey’s wedding day dawns bright and clear, and Rey stands quietly while her handmaids fuss about her, making sure her dress has not somehow acquired a stain in the last eight hours, her hair lies sleekly under the slender crown she’s chosen, her knives are easily accessible through the carefully concealed slits in the gown’s seams.

That last, Rose has mentioned, is not common in wedding gowns, but given the events of the last few weeks, Rey will be damned if she goes _anywhere_ without weapons near to hand. If her soon-to-be husbands have any objection to that, they’ll just have to cope, won’t they?

She doesn’t think she needs to worry too much about that, though. Not with _these_ men, the men she chose for their virtues and not their political clout.

The ceremony is, unfortunately, both long and boring - the chief priestess drones on for almost an hour about honor and duty and the great glory which is marriage, and while she may be a very holy woman, she was _not_ chosen for her immense skill in public speaking. Rey has a great deal of practice in keeping a blank, attentive look on her face and thinking about something else behind it, but she notices that Finn’s eyes are looking a bit glazed and Poe seems to be reciting something under his breath, lips moving fractionally.

But at last the chief priestess finishes her speech - _really_ finishes, not the long pauses she’s been putting in every few minutes that make everyone think she might be done at last - and beckons Rey and Finn and Poe up to the altar. They clasp hands and kneel before her, and she goes into yet another long, droning peroration, but this one ends with her raising her hands high and calling out to the gods for their blessing on the Princess and her chosen Consorts.

Rey and her almost-husbands stand and make their vows to each other, speaking loudly and clearly enough for the vast crowds to hear - at least most of the ones near the front, anyhow, and the temple has very good acoustics - and then Rey turns and lifts her Consorts’ hands high and cries, “My people! Make welcome my Consorts!”

The cheer seems to shake the ceiling.

The banquet that follows _would_ be interminable, except that Rose has quite sensibly arranged matters so Rey and Finn and Poe are alone on a small table up on the dais, and Rey only has to toast her people at the beginning of each course, and can otherwise spend the whole dinner talking to her Consorts. It’s _delightful_. She laughs more in one evening than she has in _months_ , and her court seems to catch her joy; she hasn’t seen such a cheerful banquet in years.

And then Rey and her Consorts retire to her rooms together, to cheers and occasional bawdy shouts - some people have apparently had a little too much wine tonight, Rey thinks wryly - and Rey - for the first time since she made her choice - hesitates.

It isn’t that she doesn’t _want_ to go to bed with her Consorts. They’re both very handsome men, and Finn’s smile has been making her weak in the knees since the moment they met, and Poe’s cheekbones ought to be illegal, but -

Well.

She’s a princess. She’s never _done_ this before. And Rey does not like feeling like she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

And then Finn raises her hand - still clasped in his - and brushes a kiss feather-light across her knuckles, and Poe gives her a crooked, honey-sweet smile, and Rey relaxes again, because these are _her_ Consorts, her chosen husbands, and even if she doesn’t quite know what she’s doing, it’s alright.

She’s safe as houses in their hands.

*

Rey wakes up warm - almost uncomfortably warm, actually - with the sunlight hitting her face, and it takes her a moment to realize that the heavy, breathing weights on either side of her are her _husbands_ , but when she does, she finds herself grinning helplessly at the blue sky visible through her window. Poe is curled around her from behind, his breath stirring the tiny hairs on the back of her neck, and Finn is on his back with Rey’s arm and leg thrown over him, looking very beautiful and very peaceful in the morning light.

In a few minutes they’ll have to get up and go start dealing with things like figuring out what each Consort’s actual duties will be and seeing off the suitors who have not found amiable women among Rey’s courtiers and beginning the long process of having Duke Snoke’s papers sorted through to discover exactly what sort of treason he’s been planning, but for right now -

For right now, Rey can lie here in her Consorts’ arms and be, for a single perfect moment, utterly content.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Whoso List To Hunt" by Thomas Wyatt.
> 
> I am imaginarygolux on tumblr and ImaginaryGolux on pillowfort; drop on by!


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